


Burning

by ChibiAuthorNate



Series: Embers of War [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Mana Is A Hell of A Drug, MurderMage, My Sister Picked These Tags, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Uncle Bel Has An Anger, What Are Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 01:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14250228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiAuthorNate/pseuds/ChibiAuthorNate
Summary: After the battle of Tempest Keep, Beleron returns to retrieve the body of his oldest friend. What he finds opens old wounds.Takes place during "Alone Together", Book 1 of ChibiAuthorJessie's "Chronicles of War", and contains MAJOR spoilers.





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Alone Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12527392) by [ChibiAuthorJessie (manatapped)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manatapped/pseuds/ChibiAuthorJessie). 



> Takes place between chapters 26 and 31 of _Alone Together_ in the "Chronicles of War" series by ChibiAuthorJessie (my sister!).
> 
> My first fic, so feedback is appreciated!

It’s hours before the adventuring party returns to Cosmowrench, boasting of the battles they had fought. Beleron crushes down the urge to incinerate them rising in his chest. The Prince of the Sin’dorei deserved better than to be murdered at the hands of vainglorious adventurers. If they have returned, it means he can return to Tempest Keep and recover the Prince’s body. Kael’thas should be returned to Quel’thalas to be buried alongside his ancestors, not left to rot in a draenei ship floating on the edge of nothing. He turns towards the Inn, hoping Mavros is still there. Not only is he still there, he’s passed out on top of one of the tables.

“Mavros!”

“Eh? What? I’ll take you all at once, you sons of trolls! Oh….I….ugh….my head. That’s the last time I drink with humans.”

“That’s what you said the night you almost set Stromgarde on fire. That wasn’t the last time and I doubt this will be either. I hope your head is clear enough for a short flight.”

“How short are we talking? Your definition of short is from the Black Temple all the way to the biospheres. Mine is more like from the bed to the table and back.”

“Relax you lazy lizard, it’s just to the Keep. I intend to recover Kael’s body, as well as the verdant spheres he kept. We need to go. Now.”

Mavros rolls off the table with a groan. “Alright alright. But I’m not going inside. My head is ringing enough as it is without the mana strobes in the walls.”

The flight from the inn to the Keep is short, albeit with a lot of weaving and bobbing. “How much did you drink?”

“No more than usual….I think she drugged me.”

“With what? What drug could she possibly have used?”

“How should I know? Though now that I think about it, the drinks did smell like unwashed feet.”

Beleron thinks for a moment, trying to remember the layout of his sister’s alchemy supply cabinet. He snorts. “Valerian root. She dosed your drinks with an herb that helps induce sleep.”

“Mental note: When drinking with a rogue, beware anything that doesn’t smell like alcohol.”

Mavros lands, wobbling at first and then collapsing. Beleron glares down at the dragon, ready to reprimand him for the landing, only to find him snoring softly. At least they made it to the ship before he lost consciousness, instead of plummeting into the Twisting Nether. Gathering his staff and other gear, Beleron enters the keep slowly. He passes the fallen, noticing many faces he has known for centuries. Young faces, faces that only wanted to serve their prince and save their people.

\--

Burning. Everything is burning. The flames dance across the crystal interior of the ship, casting strange shadows through the halls. He makes a silent prayer to Belore, hoping the slain elves find peace in the embrace of the Light. The main hall is eerily silent without the slow wingbeats of Al’ar, or its gaze that Beleron always swore actually had a palpable sound of judgement.

The trek to Kael’thas’s personal chambers takes what seems like hours. Pushing open the final door, Beleron finds the room in complete chaos. Books are scattered everywhere, some scorched beyond recognition while others have shattered on impact with the wall, spilling pages across the floor. The only thing still mostly intact is the chess set that had seen so much play over the centuries. He approaches the desk and picks up the red king. His eyes mist over as he turns the piece over in his hands, chuckling at the memory of Tyr’iel winning a match for Kael’thas almost seven hundred years ago. Some pieces still lie shattered about the desk and he gathers them up, intent on repairing them. Placing them in his pack, he continues his search.

Finally, he enters the grand manse that Kael’thas once used for war councils when planning the invasion of Icecrown. One of two gigantic mana crystals that once floated near the large window at the rear of the chamber lies cracked and battered upon the ground. Upon the steps lay four unmoving forms, bloody and blasted from intense fighting. He goes first to Telonicus, then to Sanguinar and Thaladred, closing each of their eyes in turn and saying a prayer for them. Last he comes to Capernian and the sight of her body makes his steps falter for a moment. On her finger sits a ring he knows Tyr’iel gave her long ago as a promise. He kneels slowly and removes it, placing it in one of the many inner pockets of his robes. “For Tyr’iel.” He whispers. She had been such a promising student and some part of him wished she had left Tempest Keep with them all those years ago. Tyr’iel would have been so much happier.

He looks around, searching for the Prince’s body. Nothing. Even with the shattered window and the winds of nothingness howling outside, Kael’thas’ body should still be here. Unless the adventures took it as proof of the deed. Only blood stains remain on the floor, and no trail as evidence that the Prince might have survived. This isn’t right. He could have escaped at the last second, teleported to safety. He could still be alive somewhere. No. Beleron shakes his head. His Prince is dead.

The burning sensation starts to rise in his chest and the screams echo in his ears again. Now his failure is complete. He couldn’t save the Kael’thas from the Fel and now he failed to save him from adventuring vagabonds. He needs to get away from this place. There are too many ghosts left wandering here.

A random teleport takes Beleron out of the grand chamber, away from the emptiness where the Prince’s body should have been, away from the shadows of his glaring ineptitudes. As the magic of the teleportation fades, he releases a blast of energy to knock away anything hostile that might be nearby. Glass shatters in the explosion of power, flooding the room with something.

The immediate prickle on his skin tells him exactly what it is. Mana. Undiluted, super-concentrated mana. He draws it in on reflex, and it overloads his senses. Everything fades into a dull haze. The cares of everyday life, the stress of being an Ambassador, the knowledge of his closest friend’s murder at the hands of glory-seeking adventurers. All of it floats away. A fleeting thought tells him it’s a bad idea, that he should not absorb any more, and to get out now. But it has been centuries since he has felt this unburdened and so he draws in more, letting it fill him to the core with unadulterated power.

He staggers out of the small room he arrived in, making his way down a long hallway. Glowing tubes line the walls, mana drifting lazily through them as a pinkish-purple mist. Reaching the end of the hall, Beleron pushes open the door. It reveals a large chamber with some kind of giant mana transfer device in the center. And wandering all about the chamber are demons.

Eredar, doom guards, fel guards, all wandering around with purpose. Even a dreadlord stands on the opposite end of the room. A red haze creeps over his vision, goaded on by the overwhelming presence of the mana high. Demons had warped Kael into the weapon they wanted. A half crazed conduit for the Fel, doing irreparable harm without even realizing it. Demons had created the Lich King and ordered his march on Quel’Thalas. Demons were the root of all his pain and grief, and for that, they would pay.

“Diel ma’ahn orindel'o!”

\--

The first fireball throws its target against the side of the generator, spider webbing cracks along one of the intake tubes. The demons turn as one and converge on the Archmage, screaming dark curses in a language Beleron does not understand, but some inflection in their voices seems eerily familiar. A warning alarm begins to blare somewhere overhead, filling the air with earsplitting noise. Fire repels enemy after enemy, but they keep coming. He doesn’t care. If all the Legion was arrayed before him and the Twisting Nether was emptied, he would not care. Before he fell and joined Kael, joined his wife and children, joined his king; he would take every dark thing with him in an inferno that would make Belore proud.

One errant corpse crashes into the already damaged intake tube, shattering it and sending mana flooding throughout the chamber before an emergency shutter slams into place, sealing the leak. Beleron draws in as much of the intoxicating power as he can and releases it in a corona of flame that obliterates every demon left in the area. The closest are incinerated, leaving only ash behind.

Exhausted and covered in cuts and magical burns from the conflict, he begins to move among the fallen with a small knife. He gathers the badges of authority from each corpse, knowing that the Scryers will want to know that this infestation had been eradicated. As he places the last Illidari badge into the small pouch on his belt, the last of the mana induced rage haze lifts from his eyes. He looks down and his stomach turns. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, sure that what he’s seeing is a lie. It is not a dreadlord’s body that lies before him, but the blackened corpse of Summoner Kanthin, one of Kael’s lieutenants. He has to get away. Away from Netherstorm, away from all of this. He uses the last of his energy to teleport himself back to the entrance of the Keep.

“Mavros!” he shouts. “We need to leave! Now!”

The dragon grunts, opening his eyes slowly. “Eh? What?”

“We can’t stay here! I can’t….I just….can’t. Can you make it to Shattrath?”

Mavros sighs. “I can, but were going to have to stop more than once until this herb is out of my system. Neltherion’s rage, you look awful!”

“I feel worse than i look, I assure you. I'll be much better once I'm gone from this accursed place. And we need to make a short stop at Firewing Point, I need to pick something up.”

If a dragon could raise a skeptical eyebrow, Mavros would have.

The flight is a week long blur. Even the business at Firewing Point is hazy, the interactions with the few elves left there barely registering in Beleron’s mind. He stumbles his way to his sister’s house, thanking the Light that no one is home. He collapses on a sofa and sighs, taking a small pouch of leaves out of his robes. He stares at the pouch intently, deciding whether or not to hurl it against the wall. A thousand years since the last time, a thousand years without truly losing his senses voluntarily. He almost sets it down and walks away, but he hears Anasterian’s voice in the back of his mind. “ _See that my son rules wisely_.” He pours the contents of the pouch into a small bowl and sets it alight without a second thought, the vapors taking his mind far away from all his many failures and countless disappointing actions.

\--

“Belore’s Light! Beleron are you alright?”

Keldra mutters a charm to light the crystal lamps in the living room, illuminating her brother’s form slumped on the sofa. He’s muttering under his breath, his shoulders hunched over and body wracked by sobs. She gets closer and kneels down beside him, lifting his face to meet hers. “Light above, you’re burning up! What happened?” She sniffs the air. “Bloodthistle? What in Belore’s name are you doing with bloodthistle?”

“They were demons. They were demons and they were everywhere. Kanthin…Aleia….they were all demons…..” He trails off, staring at Keldra, but not really seeing her. “I burned them all. I cast them back into the Nether. They were demons.” Something hits the floor, and the sound of clinking metal fills the still air. Keldra picks up one of the objects littering the floor and inspects it closer, horror filling her features. It’s a small silver ring of elven design, a single flame red gem set in its center. The signet denoting its owner as a soldier in the ranks of the Sunfury Army.

 

**Author's Note:**

> “Diel ma’ahn orindel'o” means "You are beneath me" in Thalassian. Used in-game by Aethas Sunreaver if you bring him along as a bodyguard on the Broken Isles.
> 
> Feedback appreciated :)


End file.
